


place your hand in mine

by ohmytheon



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 13:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10412844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmytheon/pseuds/ohmytheon
Summary: What was there to be thankful for in a thankless life? With moments left to reflect, Jyn remembers something she thought she forgot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: things you always meant to say but never got the chance + Rebelcaptain -- So, it was time, I finally did my own version of the dreaded beach scene. Perhaps not exactly what I pictured going on in Jyn's mind, but it felt very right while I was writing it.

Jyn can’t remember the last time she said the words out loud. To be honest, she isn’t certain that there has been a time in the past ten years in her life where the words were warranted.

She has never been a very vocal person concerning her feelings, even as a child, choosing to bottle them up like precious water and never allowing them to spill out. Nothing was wasted. If she gave them up, if she spoke her thoughts, she meant every last drop, even when they were lies. If she said something hurtful, she wanted the other person to hurt; if she said something kind, she wanted them to feel good; and if she said something painful, she wanted them to understand just how hard it was for her.

And so perhaps it has been since she was a child living with her parents, only half aware of what was going on around her, that she has ever felt those words. Her parents tried to teach her to be polite; they tried to instill generosity in her; they tried to teach her to be humble. But they were dead, taken from her long before those lessons could be of any use.

In Saw’s army, there was no room for kindness when a storm trooper was pointing a blaster at you. She could not be generous when there was so little of her to give. Every bit of food ration had to be hoarded lest you starved, every box of ammo treasured because the difference between death and life could be one shot, every scrap of clothe kept close unless you enjoyed being cold.

There was no forgiveness in Saw’s lessons, no warmth, no gentle touch. Even his proud smiles were daggers in the end. She wasn’t taught to be polite to the enemy. She was taught to be merciless, cold, harsh. That was how you survived. Not in a ragtag group of vigilantes, like she once thought, not in a family, like she once dreamed, but on your own and in the dark. You don’t pat yourself on the back for surviving. You don’t rely on anyone to help you back up to your feet. You take one step and then another and another until you’re on a different planet, in a different solar system, in a different life with a different name.

So no, she can’t think of the last time she has felt something like this – thought and said those words – and actually meant in.

Not even when a guard tossed her a stale piece of bread after two days of being denied food, let it roll on the dirty ground towards her, and sneered between the bars, _“Now what do you say?”_ did she ever speak the words in return. Not when a fellow soldier patched her up, complaining the whole time, did she say them after but merely shuffled off to her corner alone. She didn’t mean it, so she wouldn’t say it. Everything else in her life was hollow; she wouldn’t let that become empty too.

But here on Scarif, her knees digging into the white sand of the beach, her eyes watering from the blinding light of the horizon, she feels the words swell up in her chest. They claw at her, desperate to get out in the open, crawling up her throat until they’re on the tip of her dry tongue. In truth, she felt them for a lot longer, ever since she saw him in the hanger on Yavin IV. The words, the feeling, felt so foreign to her that she didn’t recognize it at first.

_“But I do. I believe you.”_

How long since she heard those words? How long since anyone had ever felt that way towards her? She forgot how it felt to be believed in; she forgot what it felt like to be trusted. In war, there was no such thing as trust. She could tell herself that she trusted her fellow soldier’s in Saw’s rebellion, but more than once, the same person that saved her life one day tried to stick her the next for some slight or desire. And in the end, even Saw abandoned her, leaving her with only herself to trust. Some days, she didn’t even do that.

And then Cassian spoke the words to her and she believed him. She knew it was the truth. Hope blossomed inside of her despite everything else threatening to smother it. He believed her; he trusted her – and she could do the same with him. How long since she felt such things? How long since she last felt the pure warmth that someone’s trust could bring?

They’re broken things, her and Cassian. She knows without him saying it that his belief and trust in her surprised him as well. Spies aren’t known to be trusting or trustworthy in return. Her hand in his says otherwise. She trusts him; she believes him. He stares at his bright impending death and breathes easily for the first time in years, not out of training or force, but out of relief.

She wants to say the words. It has been so long. Would they even feel right on her tongue? Would they sound right? In another world, one where they escape from Scarif, bloodied and bruised but alive, she would say them and he would probably laugh. How awkward she would sound! But how strange would his laugh sound as well. She never heard him laugh. She wishes greedily for another day, just one more, where she could’ve coaxed one out of him or maybe Baze would’ve done it, so much easier and at peace than her guarded self.

But there isn’t time – there is never enough time – and she thinks that’s just as well. She’s a thief and she’s been stealing time her entire life, living on her own far longer than anyone expected, so it only makes sense that she’s run out. She stole for one last time – secrets, Death Star plans, hope – for good instead of for gain, and so she is done with that part of her life, maybe the whole of her life.

She’s just… She feels…

Her eyes flicker to Cassian’s. The words soar into the air and crackle between them as he slowly pulls her into an embrace. So this is what it feels like. To be cared for. To be trusted not to stab in the back. To be held. She forgot. She’s happy to remember again. When she wraps her arms around his neck, she presses her face into the crook of his neck and wills the words in her mind to trickle into his. She mumbles them silently against his skin. They don’t need to be said. He knows. He knew the second he welcomed her home.

_Thank you._

It feels good to be home.


End file.
